


A Lovers' Farewell 2

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Series: A Lover's Farewell by Blue Champagne [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 01:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim doesn't get the clean break he'd hoped for, but questions are answered. Takes place a couple of hours after "A Lovers' Farewell".<br/>This story is a sequel to A Lovers' Farewell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovers' Farewell 2

## A Lovers' Farewell 2

by Blue Champagne

Author's webpage: <http://members.aa.net/~bluecham/>

Author's disclaimer: I own nobody in this story. Paramount and Petfly do.

* * *

A Lovers' Farewell II 

"So..." 

"So." Stephen, sitting slumped against the wall on the foot of his bed, didn't look up at Jim where the older man stood in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, one shoulder resting on the door sill. Stephen's packed bags were standing near the door, beside Jim. Jim's meager luggage was hidden under his own bed. 

"Delayed flight," Jim said. 

"Weather." Stephen shrugged, and tossed the football in his hands in the air once, giving it a fast spin and catching it neatly, one-handed. 

"Can be a bitch." 

"You know it." He tossed the ball again, forcefully enough that the cotton of his thin white T-shirt strained across his strong chest and shoulders. 

"Stephen..." 

"We've already done this, Jim!" Stephen growled, his voice, at fifteen, already as deep as his brother's, though he had a few inches to go to equal him in height. He tossed the ball once more, nearly smacking it against the ceiling, then caught it and forced himself to simply hold it, squeezing hard enough to make the knuckles of his broad, muscular hands whiten. 

Jim slowly stood away from the door and moved into the room, positioning himself across the oakwood floor near the mahogany roll-top desk, lifting his hands to hold them out at waist level. Stephen finally looked up at him. Jim raised his eyebrows in an inquiring gesture, with a teasing half-smile Stephen hadn't been able to resist since he was old enough to walk. 

Stephen looked away, apparently on the verge of doing just that--resisting--but finally he sighed, and lobbed the football gently into Jim's waiting hands, holding his own out for the return toss. 

Jim made the toss and said "Wonder why he went so far as to reschedule the flight, rather than wait out the weather?" 

"He said he might as well make the rounds of the offices with the time, tie up some things until the afternoon flight, as waste time getting older, watching the fog through the windows of an airport terminal." 

"So that's where he is." 

"Yep." Stephen received another return toss and sent the ball back to Jim with a little spin. "Sally's off today." 

"I know." Jim caught the ball, tossed it back. 

"You going to leave without telling her goodbye?" 

"I have to report in by two p.m. Trucks are leaving for camp at three." 

"That a yes?" 

"I..." Jim sighed, and returned Stephen's answering toss. "I sort of told her already. I gave her that locket I showed you, and told her how much we love her, and the gift was to show how we appreciate everything she's done for us since Mom's been gone. And I left a letter in her room." Jim referred to the small sleeping area Sally used when things around the Ellison home were too hectic for her to return to her own--which she shared with her family--for a night or two. 

Stephen caught the ball, but didn't toss it back at once, turning it slowly in his hands instead, blue gaze fixed to the worn old vinyl, the greyed laces. It had never been the most expensive piece of equipment, but it was important to both of them, for different reasons. Or maybe the same reasons. 

Stephen's hair, a gently shining, more red-gold brown than Jim's, fell across his forehead in touseled waves of unkempt bangs as he gazed downward for a long moment. Then, barely glancing up enough to aim, he threw it back to Jim. "You should have this. It's more yours than mine. You won it." 

"And I gave it to you, because that's what I wanted to do with it. I told you I'd win the game for you." Jim smiled at the memory of the excited little boy squirming and laughing in his arms, chanting "Win, Jimmy, win, Jimmy, win..." 

His hair shadowing his face again, Stephen shook his head rapidly. "I never thought of it as mine. It's ours. But I know you're allowed to take a couple of personal things with you, and, like I said, it's more yours." 

"Stevie, I _won_ it for _you_..." 

"No. Don't. Do NOT call me that, Jim." Stephen's voice shook. 

"Stephen," Jim sighed softly, paused, and said "You know that where I'm going, I won't have as much use for this as you will." 

"I can get another damned football. Just take it. Please. It'll help...it'll help you think of me, like I...asked you to, this..." he stopped, lips pressed together hard, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance, out the window. 

Jim was quiet a moment, then murmured "All right. I'll take it, if you want me to that much." 

Stephen didn't move; Jim finally set the football on top of the desk and came forward slowly, settling very gingerly to the bed near Stephen, who remained still, turned away, gazing out the near window. Jim began to raise a hand to rest on the younger man's shoulder. 

"Don't." One word, in a voice as dead as Stephen's dull-eyed expression. 

"I'm not trying to...start anything, Stephen." 

"Oh, I know. I know. And that's why I said 'don't'." 

Jim let his hand fall slowly to the bed. "I just...we have a little more time. A few hours, at least. I really want to spend them...being your brother." 

"There's a genetic record on file someplace that leaves no room for doubt on that score. Don't put yourself out." 

"I _know_ you're angry at me, I understand that, really, but please don't let our last--" 

"Understand?" Stephen whirled his head to match his iron blue gaze with Jim's entreating one, then snorted in sneering, derisive chuckles, shaking his head slowly. "Ohhhh, I don't think so, Jimmy Joe Ellison, no--I don't think so. You're getting away. Sure, you're not heading for a Caribbean vacation, but you're sure not heading for anything either of us couldn't handle. Me? I'm left here. Alone. With _him_. Without you here, can you _imagine_ what it's going to be like for me, what he's going to _do_ to me, have you thought even _once_ about what my life is going to be like without you here? With you having just taken _off_ with no notice? Who's going to be the only focus he's got left for...for all of it, anger, ambition, his whole fucking head trip--it's all gonna be dropped square on me! I don't know how to deal with that, Jim, you always...you always--" he choked, and his eyes misted, but he firmed his jaw and continued determinedly "You didn't only...take half that off me, by your presence as another target. You...protected me. You arranged the whole...the whole game." 

Jim knew what his brother meant. They knew that their father, for years, since Stephen had been eight or even younger, had been playing them off each other, trying to use them against each other to "improve" them both, doling out his affection to whomever, as Jim had put it once, kissed his ass with the best technique. He had them jumping for their daily crumbs of love, of self-respect, like trained terriers... 

Or so he'd thought. Jim and Stephen had been wise to him for years. Jim first, of course, being older, and he'd been the one to suggest to Stephen that if they played along, if they stuck together even when one of them was going to have to lose out because of it, they could use it, they could get this loveless man to--at least--provide them with _some_ recompense for giving them entirely conditional love, when they got even that much. They could often avoid the worst of the unreasonable punishments...and most importantly, they would still have each other. They could keep him from taking _that_ away from them, even if they would never have the kind of father that any self-respecting ASPCA member would give even a puppy to raise. 

They would sometimes straightforwardly take the rap for each other, if the other could expect a lesser punishment than the first one. There were times they arranged a more complex scenario that would cause the fall of one of them, when the other would have had to take far worse flack, for reasons applicable to the given situation. They lied for each other, covered for each other in all kinds of ways. And they never felt an ounce of guilt--in the situation they were in, helpless--minors who are not demonstrably physically abused have slim to no power over their own situations--such activity could only be seen as a survival mechanism. It wasn't as though either of them employed such tactics anywhere else in their lives. Only with _him_...because there was no reasoning with him. He was an irrational factor in the equation of their lives, a chaos wind, a force of nature. You couldn't explain, discuss, negotiate--you couldn't expect circumspective thought or understanding from this man, any more than you could fight a forest fire with sweet reason. You just had to deal with it, any way you could. 

"I know," Jim whispered. "I _have_ thought of it, Stephen. But I had to pick the best of a couple of bad choices, when it came to taking care of you." 

"We take care of each other, now," Stephen growled, then ruined the effect by sniffing and being forced to wipe at his face, childlike, with the back of his hand, and Jim had to clench his fists to keep from pulling the smaller man against himself. 

"Yes, we take care of each other, the last few years; but you follow my lead, because I'm older, and I started the whole thing. Because of that, and now that I'm eighteen, I have a responsibility to you, since as long as I don't give a shit about his money--and I don't, I wouldn't even if I didn't have my own now--I'm no longer answerable to Dad, and you still _are_. Yeah, I know how rough it's going to be. I know how tiring it'll be, and how alone you'll feel. But Stephen, it all comes down to this. I'm in love with you, and you're in love with me, and anything Dad could do to you wouldn't be shit compared to what would happen to you if he found out you were in love with _any_ guy, let alone _me_. Actually, if it were someone else, you'd be a lot safer. But I'm right _here_. We're in the same house. We...we're around each other, and him, all the _time_. Stephen, please look at me." 

Stephen didn't, but, with a small shudder, he allowed his hard, wiry body to collapse against his brother's. Jim gathered him desperately close and tight, with a soft moan. "You feel this, Stephen? You feel how helpless I am against this?" He placed feverish kisses against the soft hairs at the base of Stephen's neck, drawing answering murmurs from the younger man. "We've been over and over this, Stevie...just this morning, even. You know how careless we've been getting, how careless _I've_ been getting! Sometimes, when I see you, and...you look up, look back at me, across the drawing room, the yard, the dining table...I just can't keep the act up any more. I don't have what it takes, now, to make him think we're rivals for his approval. It...it disgusts me, I just can't bring myself to it. I _love_ you, and that's real, and it's the most beautiful thing, and we have to hide it like it's something to be _ashamed_ of... 

"If we keep on like this much longer, he's going to find out. Anyone around us enough would be able to see it eventually, but _especially_ him--he _counts_ on our vying for his approval. He _needs_ that, it satisfies him, somehow, maybe it has something to do with Mom leaving, I don't know. I don't care. All I know is we've been damned incautious, and Stevie--while it was happening, _I didn't care_. Like, say, a couple of weeks ago, in your room? It was only ten o'clock at night! He wasn't even asleep yet! And I didn't _care_ , I needed you, wanted you too much--hell, Stevie..." he paused, rocking the younger man gently. 

He finished softly "It's too much, being so close, wanting to touch you, smile at you...tell you what I'm _really_ thinking, instead of what Dad expects to hear us say to each other...I want the whole world to know how much we love each other, and how good we are for each other, and how _my_ brother is the most wonderful human being ever born, and since we finally...since that night in the shower downstairs, after the hockey game, when we were both nearly frozen and just bolted in together...?" 

"Do you think I've forgotten?" Stephen sniffed, not at all angry; Jim could hear the soft smile in his voice. 

"No," he murmured lovingly. "But since we...we came together like that, it's been building. I was always so proud of you, so proud of us, of everything you've managed to do, all your accomplishments, all the ways we've been there for each other, not just against Dad...I hated that no one could know, that we had to make people think we were competing with each other to the point we couldn't be...be what we really were. But over this last year...I can't _do_ it any more. I know that eventually--and it'd be soon, too, I _know_ that--I'd crack, and it'd all come out, and you...oh, Stevie. If that happened...I know you'd never deny it, even to save us. You'd never deny me if I let Dad, let the rest of the world, find out what we are." 

Stephen was silent except for heavy, wet breaths, clinging to Jim's powerful arms as the older man whispered the words against the back of his neck. Finally Stephen muttered "Jimmy...I wish we'd never set this up. I wish I hadn't thrown the trig final, and I wish I hadn't...the car...God, how could you know what would happen? How could you have called it like that?" 

"I've got a few years more experience with Dad, that's all. I knew what he'd do. And if he didn't, all it would have taken was a couple of hints dropped around. We've done it before, you know the drill. It's not hard to do." 

There was a long silence as they held each other, rocking gently. 

Stephen whispered "I'll never love anyone else. Not the same, not like this--" 

"Don't, Stevie. You know better than that. You're only fifteen--" 

"--and a year ago I was only fourteen, but you didn't exactly throw me off when I climbed into your lap in that shower, did you?" Stephen whispered, and the low, shivering tones of his voice were more chilling to Jim than an outright snarl would have been...because Stephen was right. Because they were young, because their feelings were immature and inexperienced, did not make them less real, and it would not minimize them in their memories in the slightest. After all, it was true. Stephen and James were to each other something that no one else could ever become, for the rest of their lives. Always, they would be their own first allies, first friends, first real emotional support since the loss of their mother's presence, first sharers of the pains of that and other losses, and the giddiness of youthful excitements and first-time events of all kinds...and, no more nor less importantly than all that, first loves. 

"Stevie, listen. It's true, I'll never love anyone else the same way I love you, and it's probably true for you, too. But that doesn't mean we won't love other people, love them in different ways, love them as much. It's true that...that all the first important things, we have all those in common, they're part of what we have together...but there's some awfully rotten crap attached to those things, too, you know, the hell we've had to go through because of Dad, times when we just couldn't keep it together ourselves and wouldn't speak to each other for weeks...we all carry our earliest lives with us, but no one actually _lives_ in their childhood forever. Not unless they're a lot less lucky than I hope for you and me. We can keep what's good, take that with us, without being attached to the bad..." he had an odd feeling as he said the last words--a foreboding, a shadow of the thought that they might _be_ some kind of last words. Famous last words. He shoved the thought aside. 

"There's so much left before either of us are...are finished, we're not through the whole growing-up thing by a long shot, neither of us. You know what they say in psych class, life is just a series of stages we go through. This is only one of them, Stevie. There'll be people just as important to you in the ones coming up--" 

"Jim," Stephen cut him off. "Tell me one more time. Tell me why it has to be for years. If what you're saying is true, why couldn't you...why did you have to make it..." 

Jim slumped in defeat, squeezing Stephen tighter. "I told you, Stevie. Baby. Oh, Jesus. I just can't trust myself. And I know if I...if I came to you, if I asked you to...be with me again, you would. You would. Hell, Stevie, I think you _always_ would." 

"I would," Stephen whispered; Jim more felt the movement of soft, moist lips against his own arm than heard the words. "But still--please--when you can--if you won't write me, and you won't visit me...then when it's over, whenever it's over--when your tour's over, when you're out of school, whatever--tell me there'll be a time it'll be over, and you'll come back to see me. We'll be grown then. It'll be safe. Please, Jim." 

Jim was torn. As he'd considered before dawn that morning, it might be better--almost certainly for Stevie, it would be better--if they simply never saw each other again. But also as he'd thought then, it would be cruel to say that to Stevie now. The first months, the first years, of their separation would be easier for Stephen if he believed that someday, Jim would come back to him, to be whatever they would be to each other after that time. 

But he and Stevie never, ever lied to each other. Truth between themselves was too important to the "game", as they called it--not in the sense of recreation, but in the sense of an activity that required consummate skill and constant vigilance to stay ahead of the other team--ahead of the enemy. Not only that, they both hated, with a vengeance, the idea of lying to each other. If they couldn't trust each other, then neither of them had anyone they could absolutely trust. 

And Jim bit his lip, and he took a deep breath, and he lied. 

"Yes, Stevie. I'll come back. I don't know how long it'll be, but I'll come back to you." 

Stephen turned in Jim's arms, embracing the broad shoulders, pushing him down on the bed, covering Jim's body with his own, seizing his mouth in a deep kiss Jim didn't remotely try to fight. "A few more hours, like you said," Stephen breathed. "A few more hours to spend being..." 

"Being brothers," Jim finished softly. 

"And more than brothers." 

"And more," Jim agreed. He hadn't intended this, or it would have happened last night, either up in their concealed spot on the roof or in one of their own beds; but then, he hadn't yet lied to Stephen, especially not such a lie as this. As he pulled at Stephen's t-shirt and dropped it on the floor, and Stephen, with the ease of practice, swiftly unbuttoned Jim's chambray, Jim knew that this was little enough to give Stephen in return for that lie. 

And little enough to give himself, in return for that loss. 

But still, and forever..."Brothers," he whispered against Stevie's full, silken lips. "And more. Always." 

* * *

End

 


End file.
